


Untangle

by temporalgambit



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Belly Rubs, M/M, Sickfic, Stomach Ache
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 08:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12553632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalgambit/pseuds/temporalgambit
Summary: Prompto would rather suffer in silence.





	Untangle

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt:
> 
> "Could you write something where Prompto has a tummy ache? Maybe like he ate something outside of whats usual for his diet (like a bunch of junk food or something) and he feels super sick and hiccupy/burpy and he’s really embarrassed. Cue lots of h/c and cuddles from one of the Chocobros (bonus points if it’s Noct)"

The third slice of pizza was a bad idea.

Snuggled up next to Noct in bed, Prompto could just about smack himself. Why, why, why, why, _why_ hadn’t he just paid more attention to what he was doing?

It’s not so much a matter of maintaining a healthy diet—as long as he doesn’t make a habit of it, it’s okay to occasionally indulge in a guilty pleasure or two (or three, as it were). It shouldn’t be a problem. It _hasn’t_ been a problem in a long time.

No, the _real_ problem here is that, filled to the brim with junk food, his stomach feels _awful_.

He’d known it wasn’t a good choice about ten minutes after eating, but at that point he’d been able to push it aside—video games and the opportunity to smooch his boyfriend had provided more than enough distraction. But now, with nothing to do but listen to the heavy lull of Noct’s breathing, he could just about cry.

It’s not just the stomachache (though that’s bad enough on its own)—it’s the whole indigestion gamut. He sucks in a deep breath, knuckles digging into his sternum as the all-too-familiar throb of heartburn flares in his chest. He regrets everything, rolling over to face away from Noct, trying to figure out if a position exists that might allow him to sleep, just for a little while. He’s certain if he could just get mildly comfortable, he’d wake up feeling a billion times better. But each new position is as unpleasant as the last, and his stomach is certainly no more settled for all of his tossing and turning.

Then the other occupant of the bed stirs. Prompto holds his breath.

No good. “Wha’ssa matter, Prom?” Noct’s voice is heavy with sleep, and Prompto curses himself for shifting around so much.

“Nothing,” he hopes Noct can’t hear the strain in his voice, “go back to sleep.”

Obviously, his terseness does not go unnoticed, because Noct laboriously props himself up on an elbow, concern pushing the sleepiness out of his tone. “Gotta be something. You okay?” he gives him a little encouraging nudge.

Prompto bites his lip. This is stupid. But maybe if he just tells Noct, he’ll drop the matter, and—“ _Hic!_ ”

Gods.

Noct makes a noise that sounds startlingly close to a laugh. “Hiccups?” he asks, and there’s definitely an edge of mirth there, “ _That’s_ why you’re still awake?”

“K— _hic!_ —kinda,” Prompto admits, hand making its way to his stomach. “I—um,” and the silence that meets his ears means that Noct is listening intently, so there’s really no going back now, “My stomach is kinda upset, that’s all.” As if out of pure spite, a loud grumble echoes off the walls, and he’s sure he must be beet red in the darkness.

Instead of laughing again, though, Noct scoots closer, until his own chest presses against Prompto’s back. It’s intimate and soft in a way Prompto would _adore_ , given any other circumstances. As it is, Noct’s hand finds his, pressed to his middle, and he laces their fingers together.

“You could’ve just said, if you weren’t feeling well,” Noct’s voice is anything but accusatory, but Prompto feels guilty anyway. “You feel like you’re gonna be sick?”

“No, it’s nothing like—I just…dinner isn’t really sitting well, I guess.” If he was embarrassed before, he’s _doubly_ so now, with Noct’s hand so close he’s certainly able to feel the uneasy churning of Prompto’s insides. It’s gross. He _feels_ gross, greasy pizza and chips and soda fighting for dominance in a match in which the only loser is sure to be him.

Noct hums, nuzzling his face into the back of Prompto’s neck, and Prompto is so caught up in bliss that for a moment he doesn’t even notice the increased pressure of Noct’s hand against his own.

Then an air bubble rockets up the back of his throat, and he _burps_.

His whole body stiffens in shock. Mortified, he apologizes, “S—sorry, excuse me,” He covers his face with both hands, wanting more than anything to just sink into the floor.

Noct stills. “Why? Don’t be sorry, Prom.” Something akin to affection leaches into his tone, and he gives Prompto’s tummy a little pat. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

It _does_ , there’s no denying that, but the fact that Noct can be so blasé about it is almost maddening. “I—yeah, kinda.” Another hiccup jolts his frame, and a tiny whine escapes his lips. Since when was hiccupping supposed to _hurt?_ And this weird apprehension over having Noct so _close_ while he feels so _icky_ isn’t exactly helping matters, either. Prompto can think himself into a stomachache on a _good_ day, and at this point he can’t untangle his anxiety from his physical symptoms—or vice-versa.

Noct is saying something just then, low and quiet, that Prompto doesn’t quite catch. “What?” he asks, stifling another airy belch behind his hand.

“I said I can hear you thinking. Are you freaking out?”

 _Yes._ “N—no, I’m…well, maybe a _little_ , but—”

Noct sighs. “I don’t wanna make you feel worse, so if you’re uncomfortable because I’m touching you, or—”

“No!” he says, a little too quickly. “It’s not—it’s not _you_ , Noct, it’s—I’m just really gross, is all.”

“You’re not gross,” his fingers curl in Prompto’s shirtfront, where his hand is still pressed to his upset stomach, “you don’t _feel_ well, Prom.”

“Yeah, but I—”

“ _Shh_. You need t—”

“ _Hic!_ ”

“—to chill. For like, five minutes. Can you do that?”

“S—sure, I guess, but wh— _oh_ ,” his toes curl unexpectedly as Noct presses a kiss to the back of his neck, rubbing an demonstrative little circle on his tummy.

“You okay?”

He nods, swallowing convulsively. Noct’s hand is warm and soothing against his sore stomach, and suddenly it’s the only thing he can focus on. A vessel of comfort in a nauseating sea of poor decisions, he clings to it like a lifeboat.

Noct doesn’t let up, either, even though Prompto is sure he must be dying to go back to sleep. The fact that he’d woken up to begin with is nothing short of a miracle, and it must be sheer force of determination keeping him awake now. Prompto is mildly touched that he ranks above sleep in Noct’s list of important things. Other contenders are few and far between.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the tension ebbs from his shoulders, his back, and a million other places he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it. He’s warm, he’s relaxed, he’s more comfortable than he’s been in _hours_. He winces as his stomach cramps, but Noct’s hand immediately finds the achy spot, massaging until it’s only a distant memory. Everything is still terrible, but it’s somehow a lot more bearable with someone on his side.

He wonders why he’d been so nervous in the first place. He wonders, drowsily, how he’d gotten so lucky.

He’s out before he knows what hit him.


End file.
